


Samael

by rottenwood



Category: South Park
Genre: Attempted Rape, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:00:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22398211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rottenwood/pseuds/rottenwood
Summary: Cartman eased up for a bit and leaned forward. His eyes were wet, tears of rage staining his face. "I hate you," He said, voice a harsh whisper. "I hate you so God damn much."Kyle was dirty.He was so, so dirty.
Relationships: Kyle Broflovski/Eric Cartman
Comments: 13
Kudos: 72





	Samael

**Author's Note:**

> This is for a very specific person who likes her Kyman dark... I hope you enjoy it, sinner.

"I want to see you fucking cry!" Cartman was screaming it. "I want to see your house burn down and you lose everything!" Kyle could barely breathe, his neck clamped shut in Cartman's tight grip. They were in Jimbo's shed behind Stark's Pond. Rain was pouring down, barreling against the tin roof. The wind was battering the cabin, screeching and howling as it slammed against the rotting wood. It was a cacophony- completely deafening. Cartman was straddling Kyle, gripping his throat and screaming. Kyle could barely see, it was all a haze. The dull thudding of thunder, the wind and the rain, Cartman's screaming- it was all melding, becoming just noise. He could feel his eyelids droop, his mouth yaw open, but it didn't feel real. It was as if he were detached entirely from the entire event, floating above the scene like a specter, watching himself die. 

But he wasn't dying. Not yet. Cartman eased up for a bit, leaned forward. His eyes were wet, tears of rage stained his face. "I hate you," He said, voice a harsh whisper. "I hate you so God damn much, kike." Kyle felt his soul slowly suck back into his vacant body as he tried his best to focus on his surroundings. Everything was blurry and blended, his body shaking as it coughed and sputtered. Cartman was sitting on him, staring down with large brown eyes. "God damn it," He wiped his hands on Kyle's shirt. 

Kyle felt eerily vulnerable. He wanted to close his eyes and go to sleep but the fear kept them wide open. Was it even fear? He couldn't say. He could barely feel anything, but the weight of Cartman, the drips of rain snaking through the roof and- 

Something hard against his leg. 

And Cartman was reaching for it. In one, slamming, horrific moment he was thrown completely back to earth, hurled entirely into his skin. It was akin ramming your car into a brick wall, hitting the ground after falling from a tree, slipping and crashing onto uneven pavement. 

He began to thrash, but Cartman leaned and pinned his arms down. "No!" Kyle was spluttering, his throat was raw and pained. Cartman leaned up to his face, their noses touching. Kyle tried to turn away, but Cartman took his arms in one hand and with the other grabbed his chin. Kyle couldn't get away from staring at him. He was repulsed, disgusted, desperate to void his body once more. 

It felt like hours, days. Kyle wanted to close his eyes but he couldn't. Cartman's eyes were huge, a soft chocolate color flecked with amber sparks of deliberate rage. They could almost be mistaken as inviting if you didn't know them, didn’t see the danger in the charm. His nose was small, slightly upturned, peeking out just above thin, pink lips, now stretched in an inhuman grin. He was far, far too happy. 

Kyle wanted to cry when Cartman started rocking against him, but he refrained. He wouldn't give Cartman the satisfaction. He couldn't. Cartman's face was red, his wide-open eyes seared into Kyle's skin. 

They were like that for too long, and Kyle began to feel strangely dirty. 

He looked into Cartman's eyes, scowling, and said, "Cartman, get off of me." His voice was quiet and unsteady, though he tried to sound demanding. Cartman stopped rocking and leaned back. He was breathing heavily. Kyle bit his lip. 

"No," Cartman said, and he grinned. 

"Asshole, I have to be home in thirty minutes." 

"I want to see you cry." 

Kyle rolled his eyes. "Get the fuck offa me, lardass!" He was trying so hard to play it off, telling himself it was just another one of Cartman's schemes to piss him off. Just another game, another cat and mouse. 

But something heavy passed across Cartman's eyes. He yanked Kyle's arms up so hard Kyle yelped. Cartman did it again. 

"Fuckin' stop! Let me go, you fat fuck!" 

"I'm not fat, Kahl," Cartman got even closer, "I'm jus' big-boned." 

"Who told you that? Your crackwhore mom?" 

Cartman yanked his arm again, harder than before, and this time he heard something pop. It was a moment before the pain came, enveloping his shoulder like a hot fire. He gasped and arched, his eyes bugging before he screwed them shut. He couldn't give Cartman any indication, any reason for satisfaction. But it was too late, and Cartman knew he'd done something. He was getting redder and sweatier and was still hard. Kyle felt dirty. 

Cartman let go of the pained arm, changing position so he could begin to wriggle out of his jeans. Kyle felt the panic rush through his body. He stared for a moment, slackjawed from pure shock. He knew Cartman was evil, but this was a new kind of cruelty. This was beyond cruelty. 

The fear grabbed him, then, and he began to scream and thrash. Cartman had his jeans to his knees and had to stop wriggling to get control again. He moved upwards so he was sitting on Kyle's torso and pushed Kyle's head into the concrete by his throat. During this movement, he let go of Kyle's arm, and Kyle did his best to hit and punch Cartman off of him, to no avail. Cartman was screaming again, but it blended with the screeching storm outside. Everything sounded the same, looked the same, all Kyle could do was desperately cling to the few drops of air in his lungs. He kicked wildly with his legs, but eventually, he couldn't anymore. His free arm slapped at Cartman's thigh uselessly, his mouth yawning open, his eyes dimming and fluttering. Cartman kept his grip, his fingers imprinting little grape-colored bruises to his skin. 

Kyle felt himself slip away from his body once more. It was like watching a film, hazy and detached. He saw Cartman keep his grip, breathing heavily. 

It was strange, then. Staring down from above like he was watching a show. He didn't know why he thought it would be a good idea to meet with the Nazi alone at night, let alone in such a secluded area. No one would be by this way for a long time. What would they think when they found him? Would anyone even find him? It wasn't likely Cartman would kill him, no. That'd be letting him off too easy. He'd want him to live with it, feel the shame and horror, feel the fear. Kyle didn't want Cartman to have that power over him. The power to make Kyle shudder every time he walked past, every time someone touched him even lightly, it was disgusting. Cartman truly did want to see him cry. 

Kyle thought back to the morning. Cartman had pulled him aside after class. He looked uncomfortable, which piqued Kyle's interest, his attention. Kyle made a few mistakes in those five minutes of conversation, but the most prevalent and detrimental was simply staying and hearing what Cartman had to say. Now, Kyle is a diplomatic teen. He likes to listen, to hear what people have to say, even when it comes to fat, whining Nazis. Sometimes he hits his limits, plugs his ears and runs away, but often Kyle listens. His burning desire to learn and his belief that everyone comes from a place of good drive him, guide him, and, ultimately, destroy him. 

So he had humored Cartman, listened to the now obviously fabricated sob-story, patted him on the back and promised to meet him. He had felt it, when Cartman first opened his mouth, the twinge in his gut, the voice telling him he was being played like a fiddle. But he ignored it. Of course he did. 

His mother had told him to trust his instinct always, no exceptions, and since then he had done the opposite. He wasn't one to take his mother's often overbearing advice. He'd met Cartman in the shed, intent on helping him. In a way he was, but not with anything honest like he had expected. 

Kyle's eyes looked back to Cartman. He was staring at Kyle's body, putting all his weight on a hand and using the other to unbutton Kyle's pants. It wasn't long before Kyle felt the same slamming feeling once more. 

Fuck no. 

He was not going to be raped by Eric Fucking Cartman. 

There was no fucking way. 

Cartman would run with this. He would fly with this. Kyle stared, grit his teeth. There was no way he would ever give that fat, retard Nazi any kind of satisfaction. 

Cartman seemed too distracted by Kyle's buttons to remember Kyle's free arm. He had shuffled down to settle on Kyle's legs, stumbled with the three hook and eye buttons as he undid them. It was painfully slow, and Kyle could barely feel anything. He was wheezing for breath, Cartman's hand having loosened just slightly. Kyle's right arm was flapping around like a fish, grasping for something, anything, to help him. 

And he found it. A rock, just hand-sized. He could barely see, so he prayed. He prayed that, for once, God would answer him and save him. Just once. Please. 

He took the rock, and with all his might, all his hope, all his fury and anger and despair, slammed it into Cartman's temple. After a moment, the grip on his neck loosened. He heard Cartman groan. 

Kyle had no time to spare. He wriggled until Cartman was off of his body then took off. He heard Cartman scream at him, lumber heavily as he tried to get up and follow. 

But there was no hope for Cartman catching him because Kyle was off like a rabbit, pummeling through the rain and fog, around the pond, over the road and the fences and the bushes of his neighbors, past the rumbling cries of the lightning. The wind was screaming, or perhaps it was him. He couldn't even tell if his eyes were wet from rain or crying. He could barely care. 

Eventually, he couldn't go on. He was stopped by his aching throat and chest, his desire to simultaneously scream and curl silently into himself. The rain pelted him with no remorse. All he could do was stand there, crouched and heaving air, looking down the road, waiting for any sign of the fat neo-Nazi. 

But no one was there. The rain had soaked his clothes, his hair. He stumbled to his house, put a hand on the door. It wasn't a good idea to go in the front, not in this state, so he snuck around the house and to the back. He barely remembered to fix his pants before going in. 

Ike was at the table, playing videogames. His father was reading the paper but put it down when Kyle came in. "Got stuck in the storm, huh?" He chuckled lightly. Kyle just stared at him. There was a heavy moment of silence, the quiet normalcy stabbing at him. Why had he even bothered to sneak around? What was he hiding? "Why don't you go get cleaned up. Dinner's almost ready." 

Kyle obliged wordlessly, ascending the stairs and settling heavy into his room. He felt dirty. So, so dirty. 

He was soaking wet but he didn’t care, shuffling onto his bed, chest heavy and cinched. He felt guilty. He knew, logically, he had done nothing wrong. If anything, he had done everything right. 

But the guilt and dirt were still lodged in his chest. When he closed his eyes, he saw Cartman's greasy face grinning at him. Nothing had really happened. He had escaped before it got truly bad, so why did he feel like this? 

He was back to watching his life through the screen, devoid of the heavy implications of what had just happened. He coughed, shrugged onto his side, stared at the door. His mother walked by, lingered a moment to chide him for getting his sheets wet before moving on. 

She had no idea, did she? No thought to even ask why he was so wet, why the usually obsessively neat teen was rumpling his sheets and ruining his carpet. The last few hours were like weights, pulling at his lungs and his head and his feet. He couldn't even sit up, just lay and think. He didn't eat dinner that night, preferring to feign sleep to avoid talking to anyone. The next day, a Saturday, he slept all morning, and when the sun rose, he stayed put. His parents were unperturbed. Not even his brother stopped by for more than a moment. He spent his weekend that way, with his phone off and the blinds shut and the covers up. He was dirty. 

He was so, so dirty. 

It's been two days. Kyle's at the bus stop Monday morning when Cartman saunters up. He grins at Kyle. "Hey, Jew," He says, and it's innocuous. Painfully so. 

Kyle stares at him. He's acting like nothing happened, playing innocent. Kyle looks to Stan, then Kenny. Both are chatting idly about some new video game, oblivious to what had transpired on Saturday. There's a rock in his gut, heavy and weighted and painful. He wants to scream, shake Stan and tell him what Cartman had done, grab Kenny and beg him to help him. 

But he says nothing. He just purses his lips and looks to Cartman. 

"Hey, fatass." He replies, and it's like nothing ever happened.

**Author's Note:**

> A fun fact, this was partially inspired by one line from the song Samael by Pill Friends. I might write more off of random lines from that song, I just love it so much.
> 
> I would really appreciate it if you left a comment about something you liked/disliked concerning my writing! I'm genuinely trying to improve, especially in terms of style and believable character. Thank you for reading, you're a real one. As the 2008 fanfickers would have said, R&R!
> 
> EDIT: I'm sorry for removing the hate comments! I didn't know what "spam" would do, I thought it would just hide them :( sorry, will leave them next time.  
> EDIT 2: Here's a link to a screenshot if anyone wants to see them! I don't want to be the dick that censors all hate against them. Please let me know if the link broke : )  
> https://i.postimg.cc/R041sW05/IMG-7861.jpg


End file.
